Clan War: Family

10th Anniversary Edition


Calleigh woke up when a door banged, and the dogs shifted on her, but she had missed the kids and their parents hurrying down to breakfast.

From somewhere, the smell of coffee wafted pleasantly enough to make her mouth water.

Still, it took her a few seconds to remember precisely where she as, and why she was there.

She'd been dreaming about falling asleep beside a tall and handsome man with long, darkly flowing hair, and woken somewhat disappointingly to a mouth full of dog fur.

Boromir licked her face quite thoroughly from top to bottom, just to be sociable. And to repay her drooling in kind.

A door opened someplace else in the Great Room, and she stirred at last, stretching out as she realized there was no way she could spend the day on the couch, despite secretly wanting to.

She needed to pee for a start.

And take a shower.

And the fire had sunk to a glowing ember of itself.

Eric's sudden laughter was startlingly loud in the room.

"Man, did you get any sleep last night?" he crowed.

She frowned, wondering if he might be talking to her, but it was Speed who snorted in reply.

"Your shirt is inside out, Mister Fashion Statement," he deadpanned.

Calleigh giggled.

Apparently no one had realized she was even there.

"Seriously? We do have rooms here!" Speed glared at Eric like it was his fault she'd had to sleep in the Great Room.

"I would have liked one," she grumbled. "But I couldn't find one see how you…"

Her hand appeared over the back of the couch, an accusatory forefinger aimed straight at Speed despite her not actually having seen where he stood.

"…left me standing out here like a lousy Prom Date!" She huffed most indignantly. "I don't have my bag, or my bra!"

To her utter mortification, it was Horatio who discreetly hooked her underwear over her pointing finger, having found it on the floor and gotten his left foot tangled in the shoulder straps.

She snatched it away with a shriek, whereupon two dog heads promptly appeared, sniffing at him, each flopping over opposite ends of the back of the couch, to eye him up and down like he was a particularly tasty liver snack.

Until they discovered him smelling just like their Master.

"Whoa!" H took a step back, genuinely surprised. "Who's this?" He reached out to pet the inquisitive beaks he was presented with, and stopped. "Wait! I was out here last night, and I didn't see dogs!"

"They've got really excellent camouflage," Speed explained, as Eric took his t-shirt off and turned it the right way around, "as professional rugs."

"You own these guys?" Calleigh asked, wondering where her pants had gotten too, and whether she could reach them without flashing her assets at her boss.

"Aragorn! Boromir! Off!!" Speed growled, and the Wolfhounds clambered lazily from the couch, making their new found friend squeal and groan as they crawled all over her in their lack of haste to obey.

"You couldn't've waited another thirty seconds?" she muttered, sitting up and tossing her rather disheveled hair from her forehead. "I have bruises in unmentionable places now!"

The dogs weren't all that bothered as they ambled out of the room.

Everyone wanted breakfast it seemed.

"Is there a bathroom here some place?" she asked. "And maybe my clothes?"

Speed shrugged.

So too did Eric.

"I do believe it was Thomas who took your things," Horatio offered helpfully.

"Indeed, sir," the man himself affirmed, having been to check on Master Antonio's guests, only to discover an unused room where there ought to have been a young lady present. "There appears to have been a slight breakdown in communications, ma'am," he continued, grateful to have arrived not only in time to let the dogs out, but to correct the slight faux pas in his otherwise flawless logistics. "Your room awaits your convenience in the opposite wing." He shot Speed a rather disappointed look, but it was so very subtle that only the recipient of it could tell its meaning. "When you are quite decent, ma'am, I shall be exceedingly glad to escort you there in person, then have the fire in here remade."

"Thank you!" Calleigh beamed. "It's nice to find a proper gentleman!"

Thomas nodded at her most courteously, then turned his attention more fully to Master Timothy. "A Council has been called. Everyone is meeting in the Security Room with Clan Leadership."

Horatio cast a curious eyebrow in his Mate's direction. "Meeting? News?"

"Yeah," he nodded, having already gotten a text message when he work up "Go with Eric and get some food. I'll join you when we're done."


***


"Tell me we know more than we did yesterday?" Speed took his customary seat at the conference table, to the left of his Sire and directly opposite Warrick, who sat on Nick's right as Co-Leader of the Clan.

The seat his brother normally occupied at such events, the one to Warrick's right, was rather suspiciously empty.

No one spoke.

Lenny and Diego exchanged matching sighs.

They were in the middle of the long table, opposite each other, half-empty coffee mugs in front of them.

At the back of the room, McGee was fiddling with the computer system that controlled their video conferencing equipment, but the bank of screens to Speed's left were still flickering with digital snow.

Artemus slid quietly into the room, and sat just down from Diego.

A moment later Giles followed suit, and sat beside him at the furthest end away from Nick.

Their Clan Leader drummed his fingers on the tabletop, his right hand marking time with a slow, steady, really rather menacing rhythm.

Van Helsing slammed the door for what was a third interruption.

Everyone flinched.

He slipped his coat off and took a seat behind Nick, at one of the side tables out of the way.

Given that he normally sat beside Speed, he found his Clan Advisor staring at him rudely.

Rossi arrived after that, a heavy folder under his left arm.

He chose to sit near the Clan's Lead Hunter always in the back corner of the room where he could see everything and everyone.

A sudden cheer from McGee was the herald to them finally seeing two of the screens come to life.

On the left, a head and shoulders shot of Clara Barton in a media center at Cheyenne Mountain.

On the right, her Mate, Jack McCoy, in the New York City District Attorney's new office conferencing facility.

"Where are Indy and Lara?" Warrick asked.

"Their plane was delayed," Van Helsing replied. "They're on their way in from Baton Rouge and should be here in the hour."

Nick's fingers kept going with their monotonous drumming.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.



His coffee had gone untouched.

Sylum's entire Leading Council was just about gathered.

The multi-directional speaker in the center of the tabletop, hissed to life, sounding at first like a pissed off cat that just got a shoe thrown at its head, before it produced the irritated voice of Bruce Wayne.

"Am I on?" the movie producer asked.

"Hey, man," Warrick replied. "We got you."

There was an entire war zone's worth of crashing, banging and yelling after that, much of which came out of the speaker in a variety of different languages, and was difficult to untangle.

"Where the hell are you?" Warrick frowned.

"On set. London. NOT NOW! LATER!!"

Speed snickered as an unseen someone got the sharp end of Wayne's tongue.

"It's this Victorian Magic crap. We're doing the movie off it. Kirk is driving me batshit! I AM ON THE GODDAMN PHONE HERE, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!!"

McGee's chortling did a lot to hide Speed's own outright laughter.

"Take that back," Bruce continued. "Kirk Lazarus is batshit!"

Never mind that said actor, and his very long line of infamous 'descendants' - whom he regularly played as himself - were the recipients of an equally long list of Oscars, BAFTAs, and other assorted acting triumphs the world over.

Warrick grinned. "It's good that we have at least some of your attention here, Bruce."

"I'm here, but don't push me. I can't guarantee how long you've got until I pull the plug on this circus."

Everyone looked to Nick.

"Someone fetch me my oldest son before I'm forced to go get him myself."

It was the only thing Speed heard him say so far, and it was couched in terms that left absolutely no mistaking what would happen if he had to in fact, do just that.

It forced Jim Brass to flee the room virtually the very instant he set foot in it.

While Horatio and Eric were acquainting themselves with the Manor Kitchen, and discovering the joys of Cook's biscuits and gravy, Calleigh found her room, her belongings, and the simple pleasure of a long hot shower. The children had gone with their parents to see the horses, Lindsey having dragged a somewhat reluctant Gil alongside her. They took Aragorn and Boromir with them, and Kevin Collard - the Stable Master - brought Frodo and Sam, a pair of brother and sister Corgis, to play along. Greg was nowhere to be found, though Gil suspected he was still in bed, taking full advantage of some alone time.

Tony and Jethro were asleep, mostly on rather than actually under the bedcovers, having fallen, limbs tangled, into a messy, sweaty, sticky heap, neither keen on moving, and too stunned by what had happened between them to fully comprehend it all yet.

Curled into each other, there was nothing between them.

And it was perfect.

Until someone hammered a fist on the bedroom door, hard enough to virtually knock it off its hinges.

Tony leapt.

Jethro cracked an eye open.

The hammering came again.

Louder.

Or so it seemed.

"Show a leg!" Brass yelled, his voice booming through Tony's wing of the Manor like he was back on the Red Stallion and rousing a shiftless Watch. "Up an' at 'em!"

Nothing happened.

Which at least had the unexpected effect of making him pause and tilt his head in confusion, before recommencing with the banging and the yelling.

"Get your ass out of bed before I come in there and kick you around!"

Some clattering ensued from within the room, but of his quarry there was still no sign.

"I don't care if you're naked! It's not like I've never seen your sorry dick before!"

He hammered again at the door.

"It's not that impressive!"

Tony's growl was low and exceedingly dangerous.

He was a little light-headed, and more than a touch disoriented, but he knew a threat when he heard one, and though he was struggling to try and find some pants, as well as shirt that didn't require too much in the way of hand-eye coordination for buttoning, he took a moment to ensure Jethro was fully covered up just in case Brass made good on what he was saying. Whereupon the sight of his Mate, lying there in the most gorgeous state of disheveled abandon, had him utterly distracted, half hard, and eager to say a proper 'good morning'.

Or at least he hoped it was morning.

It didn't feel like morning.

Actually he had no idea what day it even was.

Not that he cared all that much.

When Jethro smiled up at him sleepily, he crawled back onto the bed, crouched over him, and kissed his mouth with the kind of passion that rapidly had them both flushed and hot.

"Who the hell is that outside?" Gibbs muttered, when his lips were his own again.

"The Quartermaster of the good ship Sylum," Tony replied, rolling his eyes.

The hammering continued unabated.

"Either I come in there and drag your puny ass out of bed, or your father will!" Brass yelled.

That rather deflated Tony's eager manhood, until Jethro ran a hand down his back and squeezed his barely clad ass with a tightly possessive grip that bid him stay right where he was.

"How are you feeling?" Tony asked softly, seeing the spark in in Jethro's eyes. "Are you coping?"

"So far." Still he flinched a little when Brass banged his fist on the door yet again, and set about rattling the handle for good measure.

Tony leapt up, shirt hanging off his shoulders, pants just about on his hips.

"I know you don't know how to lock a door!" Brass was not at all troubled at the prospect of invading someone's privacy, even that of the newly Turned. He'd lived the longer portion of his natural life before ever becoming a Vampire, in the confines of various seagoing vessels where privacy was just about nonexistent unless it was a matter of life and death. And given how Nick had issued the order he was even then attempting to carry out, it certainly was a matter of life and death.

His own, most likely.

Tony reached the door just as it started opening, squeezing his way, literally, through the tiniest of cracks so that Jethro's naked, sheet-draped body would not be exposed to prying eyes.

"What??" he demanded. "Just what the hell!" He was not as accustomed as he once had been, to the rude awakening of those with no decorum, and pulling himself up this fullest height, he glared snootily down at Brass in disgust.

The only problem with this attitude was that his audience had both seen and faced off against far worse things in his time, than an angry, badly attired, inappropriately smelling Templar Knight with an over inflated sense of his own self-worth, and no apparent idea of what was happening around him.

"There's a meeting. Your phone was off. Nick's about to rip you anew one," Jim said simply, speaking very slowly and carefully, making certain he was at least marginally understood before grabbing the dithering fool who was meant to be his Clan's Second-in-Command, and propelling him out of the Great Room at high speed.

Never mind that his hair wasn't combed, and he had no shoes, or even socks on for that mater. Brass already knew Van Helsing was in the Dog House for dropping the ball just lately, and wasn't about to join their Lead Hunter any time soon because Tony was too self-absorbed to noticing the needs of anyone beyond the confines of his own bedroom.

That Tony did not think to either complain or protest, was irrelevant.

They were at the top of the Grand Stairs, when Ducky Mallard greeted them from halfway up.

"Antonio!" he cried. "My dear boy, I heard the news from Thomas and had to come see you and your Mate for myself! You are indeed looking most satisfied this morning!"

In fact, the chipper, unruffled, most nattily dressed Doctor of Pathology, was quite the polar opposite of Tony's unkempt, barely awake incoherence.

"Can't stop, Duck," Brass explain, shoving his charge between the shoulder blades to get him moving down the stairs. "Big meeting. Lover boy's running late. Important people are pissed as all hell!"

"Ah!" Ducky nodded knowingly. "Well then I shall tackle the baby Vampire for myself, and ensure all is quite as it should be. No doubt dear Jethro will have questions, and I shall be more than happy to fill in the blanks that have been left from last night. Never fear!"

Tony was horrified, screeching to a halt mid-step and nearly knocking Brass off his feet.

"He's not dressed!" he cried, having a full-on moment of flail.

"Nonsense! I've seen him naked before now. Actually there was at least one most memorable occasion when I had to suture his…"

"Ducky!?" Jim snapped, seeing quite unmistakably the serious intent in Tony's flashing eyes. "Go do your thing, Doc. I'll deal with the possessive arse-wipe here."

And with that inflection which marked his native accent, bursting from his mouth in annoyed frustration, Brass slapped his charge on the back, nearly pushing him the rest of the way down to the ground floor.

By the time Doctor Mallard paused long enough to take a breath and look back at where he'd just come from, the object of his well reasoned reassurance had already reached the Security Room.

"Hey, Duckman!" Abby's dulcet greeting was as jovial as it was unexpected. "Good to see you!" she grinned.

"And a fine good morning to you too, Abigail. Did you sleep well?

She tottered toward him on a pair of three-inch wedge-heeled shoes, and he wondered quite how the poor girl never actually sprained an ankle, or broke a wrist falling over.

"I slept fabulously! This place is like totally so not a Vampire lair, it's perfect!" She giggled, the ponytail she had twisted her thick, dark hair into, bobbing wildly on the top of her head. "I totally approve!"

"Well, I am very glad to hear it."

She hugged him when he reached the top of the stairs, and he almost got his left earlobe pierced by one of the dreadfully sharp spikes she wore on the heavy, black leather collar round her neck.

"It's so exciting, Ducky! I mean real Vampires! I can't believe you kept this all a secret from me for so long!"

"It certainly wasn't easy, my dear," he replied carefully. "Not given your delightful proclivities."

She laughed, fiddling with her rings and straightening out the black and white shirt she wore under a short, leather jacket that jangled with silver studs. "You have to take me exploring later, okay?"

"Of course, my dear!"

"Now, where's the kitchen? I'm starved!"

He was about to open his mouth and explained, when a second young woman appeared from Tony's wing and walked toward them, seeming relieved at finding there were people around whom she could talk to.

"Y'know, there really should be some signs here," she began, her accent betraying a Southern charm that was most distinctive. "Like in hotels, so folks don't get lost just trying to find the closest bathroom."

Her smile was infectious, and when she stopped right in front of him, next to Abby, he found her pale skin and long far hair a startling contrast to his Gothic colleague.

"I'm Calleigh Duquesne," she said politely, holding her right hand out with formal dignity.

Her grey and white t-shirt bore the words 'Miami-Dade Police Department Forensics' in bold letters across the chest, and her still damp hair, woven into a braid, had left a wet patch on her neck.

He shook her hand with equal aplomb. "A pleasure! Donald Mallard, at your service."

She grinned.

Abby quickly got in on the necessary introductions, and he made doubly certain to direct them down to the kitchen, pleased to note that by the time the two girls reached the foot of the stairs, they were firm friends, busy chattering away about the joys of their work, and the nature of those they did that work with.

Which then left him free to pursue Jethro, with Abigail free to squee over his being Turned later on. The poor man needed chance to gather his wits about him first, before he got pounced on by everyone else. And he'd hardly gone 24 hours yet, with the knowledge that Vampires were so much more than simply fiction constructs of a purely creative intent.

It was enough to drive the well-meaning doctor to start slapping folk like Jethro himself so often did!

Naturally, he was most deeply concerned for his oldest friend in the world, having woken to the news of what had occurred the night before, when Thomas kindly brought him some breakfast. It had not been truly shocking under the circumstances, but Ducky had rather stunned himself in first assuming that Antonio had likely forced his Will upon Gibbs in a moment of uncontrollable Vampire lust.

Which made more sense than he actually cared to admit, yet still left him feeling like a total cad.

Jethro was lying, much where Tony had left him, silently experimenting with his newly granted sensory skills, attempting firstly to control them, and secondly to discover what they truly could achieve.

It was at once both liberating and terrifying, especially when he found he could not only hear the rapidly approaching footsteps of someone out in the Great Hall, but that person's heartbeat and breathing pattern too.

That the bedroom door flew open, hardly came as much of a stunning surprise.

It seemed a day of rude interruptions was heading his way, regardless of how he actually felt about it.

"Good morning, Jethro!" Ducky stalked across the room and promptly flung the curtains wide.

Everything made the new Vampire flinch.

"How are you feeling, this most auspicious morning?"

With an elaborate gesture, a bit like a Matador with a cape, or a magician yanking a cloth off a table without disturbing the place settings, his friend simply swept the sheets and blankets from around him, and bid him rise.

"Let's be getting you in the shower. It's no good you just staying there all day. There are some very important lessons I must teach you about life as the 'undead'."

Doctor Mallard's exuberance was altogether irritating.

Not for the first time in their long, and really quite colorful relationship.

"Are you a Vampire, Duck?" To his astonishment, Jethro found his voice a little croaky.

"Of course not!"

"Then shut up."

Ducky blinked at him, utterly unperturbed. "That does in no way mean that I am not well aware of what a Vampire actually is, Jethro, or how the changes affected in your body generally alter the accepted limitations of the human frame and mentality! Now, get up and get washed. Chop! Chop!!"

Jethro reluctantly did as the doctor ordered.

It was going to be a very long day too apparently.

Security Room

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Tony's overdue appearance merited nought from his Sire but the same rhythm of sound drummed upon the tabletop.

Everyone present found their gaze followed the Clan's Second-in-Command as he strutted into the room with such utter oblivion to those about him, it even silenced Speed, whose snark was rarely bested even on a bad day.

No one could possibly have either missed or mistaken the triumphant glow upon Tony's face, the swagger of his hips, or the way he sighed most dramatically.

Warrick, however, leapt to his feet before the boy could so much as touch the seat beside him.

Eyes narrowing, he took him by the sleeve, spun him around and propelled him hastily to the restroom at the back of the Security area. "Get in there and clean yourself up! You look like a whore and smell like a damn bilge rat!" he hissed.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

He opened the door and pushed Tony inside, slamming it shut again on the startled protests that came his way.

Unable to hold it in a moment longer, Speed nearly exploded. "Did I see that? For real?? He actually Turned his Mate last night? Seriously?" Memory of Nick in nothing but a pair of bloody sweatpants, totally justified his assumption.

"In the shower," Warrick explained, having gotten the whole story a couple of hours ago. "Spur of the moment."

"Holy shit!! Finally? I can't believe it!"

"This from the man who took six months to Turn his own Mate, while waiting for him to get his precious head around whether or not he could accept being a Vampire to start with?" The Clan's Co-Leader was pissed, in part because he hadn't gotten laid the night before, but mostly because he could sense the rapid seething anger in his Mate.

"Hey! I'm not the one came waltzing in here reeking of sex and looking like a Hooker!" Speed was quite understandably perturbed. "Has he Bonded?"

Warrick frowned. "I hope so."

"Well then, this is cause for celebration," Clara said, beaming at the room. "It's a landmark in Clan history."

"So is getting attacked twice in quick succession when the country's not actually at war."

Speed snorted at Warrick's comment, and Van Helsing shifted in his seat.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

The sound of Nick's drumming fingers had yet to cease.

But at least it saved the room from a painfully awkward silence, and made it more uncomfortable instead.

Brass took his expected placed at the door, arms crossed, legs braced like a sailor on a rough sea. It was never his role to involve himself in such meetings, unless directly asked an opinion. His job was to keep the room from being disturbed by anyone who was not meant to have access at that point.

When his Captain looked at him for clarification of Tony's situation, he rolled his eyes.

And that was all they needed to know.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Warrick stalked back to the restroom door and hammered on it, much as his Quartermaster had done upstairs. "Don't make me come in there!"

A moment later though, Tony reappeared, his hair a little damp but far more neatly presented, and his shirt done up bar the very top button, it's tails neatly tucked into his pants. His feet were still bare, but he smelt a whole lot cleaner, and there wasn't a Soul in the place didn't feel a surge of gratitude for that.

"Mmmmmm," Speed mocked, sniffing the air as his brother finally sat down beside Warrick on Nick's right hand side. "Thomas put those new Lily-of-the-Valley wet wipes out, huh?"

"Timothy!" Nick's growl was low and exceedingly deadly.

Which naturally served to provoke the Irishman a whole lot more, and he threw his hands in the air in a gesture of comic despair. "What? I'm just saying!" he explained.

"Look, can we get this rectal probe done with?" Tony asked, sounding positively bored by it all.

Whereupon, Speed opened his mouth again, completely unable to let that much of a juicy comment simply hang there.

"Timothy!!" As Nick barked his Childe's name for a second time, Tony smirked broadly at his sibling, for he had been most triumphant in the distraction he had caused, and gotten his brother nicely yelled at, thereby deflecting the current awkwardness away from himself. His expression however, won him a painfully sharp jab to the left shin from Warrick's right boot under the table, and as his face flushed with the agony of holding in a sudden vehement expletive, Speed winked at him.

"May we get on?" Giles whined. "I only ask because there is a vast amount of work still to be done."

"Then begin," Nick said quietly, the snotty attitude of his Clan's Archivist and Librarian, doing nothing whatsoever to sweeten his mood.

"Well, with the current migration of our ledgers and card indexes onto the new computer databases built specifically for Chosen Ones and their families, it has proven easier to check on the newest people around us, who if anything, might perhaps work against us. The older families are a long way above suspicion by virtue of their reputation and heritage. But with Jones gone on a wild goose chase looking for El Dorado, again, I've been getting these checks done by myself."

"So you have no useful input to our meeting?" Nick asked.

Giles coughed. "I believe there has been a current influx of new Chosen Ones, with at least one having immediate family ties to organized crime in Las Vegas. We used to be so much more careful about these things once upon a time. I should have record of their names and contacts, and be able to reach all of them, at the very least in case they are in need of our assistance, or perhaps under serious threat."

Speed frowned, not sure for a moment whether his friend was being deliberately aggravating, or just annoyingly practical.

Nick stared at Giles with the kind of expression that could turn most men to stone. "We'll talk about that later. I want more immediate threats first."

Giles surprisingly opened his mouth to reply, but his Clan Leader cut him off with a sharp gesture of the same hand he had been drumming the table with.

"Commodus was seen two weeks ago. Milan," Bruce said swiftly. "He has a new business interest in fashion design. I think he's doing it to piss of Romulus and Remus."

"As long as he's not pissing me off, I'm good with it," Nick snorted. "Where is Livia?"

"Last confirmed sighting was yesterday. Cairo. Lady Heather got a trustworthy report of her being there with Meela, of all people. The Shadow has been made aware." Van Helsing sounded smug at having some real news to deliver.

"Good," Nick replied. "Do we have eyes on Tavington and Beckett yet?"

"No, just gossip. No hard data to go on, and La Croix has no idea. Jackass. Same for Sabine. All rumors there too, but Marek has his Hunters out."

"Stillson?" Nick demanded, still not turning to address his Lead Hunter directly.

"Iowa," McCoy interjected. "He's on a personal fundraising kick again."

"This recent information?" Speed asked.

"A couple of day," the Clan's Legal Advisor admitted. "That's the best I got."

Nick's frown deepened. "Where is Joshua Hickok?"

"South America," Bruce replied.

"Where?" their Clan Leader pushed.

"South America," Bruce said flatly.

Speed rolled his eyes.

"Victor Fitzgerald?" Nick was just being thorough.

"If he leaves New York any time soon, I'll eat my shorts," McCoy asserted. "He's got some pull, but not that far."

"Frankenstein?"

No one spoke.

"Anybody?" Nick sighed.

Van Helsing sighed too, figuring he was in so much shit with Nick as it was, that a little more would barely count. "No idea. No one has. He's like the Ghost of Christmas Future - a big ugly specter of impending doom looming over our heads with a giant scythe, ready to reduce us all to ash in our puny and helpless insignificance."

Silence.

Profound.

Disturbing.

"That's very nice there with the poetry 'n' all," Speed drawled, "but can we actually find the fucker?"

Van Helsing said nothing more, and sunk down into his chair with a pained expression.

"People are trying," Bruce assured them all, "harder than you think."

"That leaves Rochefort. Tell me we had eyes on the airport in DC?" Sylum's Clan Leader looked at his Second, who shrugged, then at Lenny who felt like a total idiot.

"I've not heard anything yet," he said cautiously.

"Then perhaps the next time one of our people puts a bullet in the head of one of our actual known enemies, someone will have the wit to pick him up, bring him back here and get him healed, so we can beat some useful information out of him before I decapitate the bastard."

Lenny fought the urge to repeatedly slap his forehead with his palm, having no rational justification for why he hadn't thought to do precisely as Nick just suggested.

"So, basically we know about as much as we did when we sat down." Speed was unimpressed.

"Well, this Clan's leadership has been somewhat distracted of late," Giles muttered.

Which had the virtue of being honest, if not exactly diplomatic.

Nick gave him a sour, tight-lipped nod. "It isn't any more," he said forcefully.

"As soon as there's anything useful to be had from the gun that Jimmy brought us, I'll let you know," Speed said carefully, breaking the sudden strained tension.

"What gun?" Tony asked.

"The one I was shot with," Nick answered flatly. "I'm fine, by the way. Thank you for asking."

He saw Clara open her mouth to speak, but the rapid buzzing of his up ended cellphone on the table before him, rather served to silence everyone.

McGee had already hooked him up with a new phone after the death of the last one. Same number. Same contact list. Just a different model.

Technology was never going to sit still anymore.

It buzzed again.

Everyone stared at it.

And at Nick, who read the cursory text message it heralded, with a certain expression on his face that implied someone could very well die in the next few minutes.

"Brass? Open the door," he ordered. "Right now."

And just in time too, given that Riddick was not in the mood for being polite enough to knock, or ask anyone for permission to enter.

His appearance was in itself surprise enough.

The woman he had in tow, was worse of a shock.

Timothy leapt to his feet as the bald-headed, silver-eyed Hunter tossed her into the room and dropped her on the floor like a sack of garbage, making her yelp.

"Megan!!" Speed was horrified.

"Caught her in the Garden District, swapping bodily fluids with a Rogue who's now blowin' in the wind. From the not too savory things she's been screeching about you, I figured to bring her here." Riddick took a cautious step back as his job was done.

"You know her?" Diego asked his Clan's Advisor.

"Megan Donner. My mentor at the lab in Miami," Speed answered quietly, not taking his eyes off her as he moved around the table to where she was struggling up again. "A friend."

"Oh, please!" she scoffed, brushing her hands on her pants as though to clean off the filth she had landed in, on what was actually a scrupulously clean floor. "Friends don't do what you did!"

"I have never done anything but support you, learn from you."

The hurt on his Childe's face, hurt Nicolaus too.

"Bullshit!! You could've saved Shawn! You were there!! And you did nothing!"

Getting in his personal space, she raised a hand to strike him, but Riddick caught her wrist with a move so fast, no one saw it coming.

"Shawn did not want this life. When he became a Chosen One, he made that very clear," Speed said slowly and precisely, nodding at Riddick to let her go.

"Liar!! You think he wanted to die that way? You think he wanted me to suffer? You think that's fair?"

She was beside herself with fury, her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashing as the full brunt of her grief and anger was unleashed.

"Do you think it's fair to force the Vampire on anyone without their consent? I am sorry your husband died, but he gave his life doing his duty, doing his job, doing the right thing for someone. He was being a real cop, and a caring man. He was my friend too, and yet I let him go."

Riddick shoved her to the floor once again when she screamed and lunged at Speed.

"You patronizing sonofabitch! You have no idea what I went through because you failed! You failed!!!" She leapt to her feet. "You talk about duty? You don't know what that means! You think you know all about a man's life? Then you watch him die when you could save him? He was my husband! I can't just let him go like he was nothing more than the family dog!"

"So you got yourself Turned, to wait for him?"

"You're damn fucking right I did!"

Speed hadn't seen her in about 18 months, when she'd returned to work at the lab after burying Shawn and taking grief counseling and personal time away. He had thought she was learning to cope. He had offered her a shoulder to cry on, and fought with his colleagues to win her some respect. Then she had simply turned around and quit without warning, barely a couple of months in. Horatio had tried to support her too, but she never really settled into the team, not with him effectively doing what had actually been her own job role before the tragedy.

"Who Turned you?" he asked quietly, having never, not in a million years, expected such a situation would come to haunt his ass.

"What d'you care?" she mocked, hands on hips, her curly hair flying every which way. "Oh, yeah, you don't care!"

"Who Turned you, Megan? The Rogue that Riddick took out?"

She snorted. "That was just to get your attention. You've not been noticing anything but your precious Horatio, and we had to get you taking notice."

"We?" he demanded.

She got in his face, granting him the opportunity to confirm what he had already been smelling on her. "Wouldn't you just love to know?" Her smile was more a leer.

He blinked at her, honestly wondering where his friend from Miami had gone. "Was it Stillson who Turned you? Or are you just fucking him to piss me off?" he asked casually.

Her astonishment registered with an instant paling of her features, and she spat at him in disgust.

He never flinched, though he certainly felt the wetness hit his cheek. "I smell him on you, Megan. You thought I wouldn't? I Sired him. And there's not a day goes by when I wish I hadn't."

"He's going to kill you," she hissed softly, like she was letting him in on the biggest secret ever.

Nick rose to his feet, with both Warrick and Tony following suit, moving around the table to Speed's defense.

It seemed to egg her on, thinking she'd seriously worried them with that threat. "He has the kind of powerful connections you can't even imagine."

"You sound like this script came from a bad melodrama," Speed retorted. "Stillson is a self-obsessed, manipulative, narcissistic cretin so full of his own importance, he wouldn't know true power if it got up and danced the Tarantella on his incredibly thick skull," he sighed, doing everything he could to keep from slapping the crap out of her. "He's using you. He uses everybody."

She snorted. "He said you'd say that. He said your dead Papa over there would also come to your rescue. He said you have a pathetic belief that these fools you call family will always be here to care for you. Well, not for much longer. You're done. Sylum is done. And the noble Vampire heroism bullshit you peddle here, is over!"

Nick hit her.

With the back of his hand.

Speed simply sidestepped out of his way and watched as she fell, a surprised grunt issuing from her bloodied mouth.

No one moved.

"Who Turned you?" Speed demanded

"You think you're gong to kill him too?" she asked, wiping her chin on her left sleeve, though she did not attempt to stand and go toe to toe with the Roman General. "I don't think La Croix would like that," she chuckled. "But I have to say, Tavington is a much better kisser than Stillson, on a purely professional level of course."

It was Warrick who handed Nick a sword, retrieved from the weapons cache that was under the table where Van Helsing sat.

It was short bladed, with one serrated edge and a simple finger guard.

"I spun him a sob story about a Vampire refusing to save a poor Chosen One whose death was a pathetic, pointless waste. And when I mentioned your name, Timmy, he couldn't Turn me fast enough. Oh, he was an absolute prince about it. I didn't have to fuck him or anything. He said it was the principal of the matter. And you would totally understand."

With her back to all but the two people on the video screen, she slowly stood up, straightened her blouse, and spun around to the object of her hatred.

"Shawn was my Mate! I know it. I feel it!! His loss killed everything inside me that was only kept alive by his love. And you did that to me! You!!!"

Speed took the unmitigated rage she threw at him.

It was not the first time someone had screamed in his face.

Or threatened his existence.

Or promised hell and damnation to his Soul, and the Souls of all those he loved most in the world.

So he was really quite startlingly calm when Nick pressed the sword into his hand, making no pretense at hiding it.

"You can't kill me," Megan scoffed. "I've been well taught. There are laws in play, even for creatures like you who think you're above them!" She stood her ground, arms crossed. "I demand Council Protection!"

"You forfeited that Right, when you plotted with my enemies and threatened violence to this Clan and the innocents it protects," Nick assured her very quietly.

Her eyes flickered back and forth between him and Speed, and in a momentary flash of the very briefest inspiration, she knew she had been played.

And it was a terrible feeling.

A soft smile crossed her lips, and she sighed, hoping at least she would see Shawn again soon.

"Are you sorry?" she asked archly, looking Timothy full in the face.

He wanted to reply, yet there were no words that could adequately speak to how much he was enduring.

"Never matter then," she shrugged. "You soon will be."

He made her end a swift one.

At least he had strength and focus enough for that.

And as Megan's ashes pattered to the floor, he dropped the sword, turned away, and stalked out.

"Oh, my," Clara murmured.

"I don't think Stillson's in Iowa right now," McCoy grimaced.

"I'm going back to the city," Riddick said quickly.

"Take Jimmy and Noah. Be thorough," Nick advised.

"Wait!" Artemus had said nothing yet for the entire time he'd been sat in the room, but a weird thought struck him. "This woman worked in Miami. She knew Horatio, yes?"

Nick nodded. "What?"

"Her anger wasn't just with Timothy then, was it."

Warrick saw the scope of the problem being suggested. "I'll check on the Miami crew. Horatio is young, and that makes him especially vulnerable. And then there's the kids…"

He was about to take off after Speed, when the sound of a very powerful motorbike, rushed past them from the road outside.

"Where the hell does he think he's going?" Tony flailed, knowing the thrumming signature growl of a Ducati when he heard one.

But Nick already knew his boy was pissed beyond belief, and in need of some way to vent that feeling without causing any more damage. He himself had his own method of doing so; a tried and trusted panacea for the Soul that was not entirely dissimilar.

He closed his eyes, seeing suddenly, and with remarkable clarity, the full scope of the battlefield he had been forced on to.

"Warrick!" he began, knowing from long borne scars that the best way to fight was in being ready. "Find the people from Miami and get them upstairs where its safe. Riddick, get going. Take Diego. Co-ordinate with Gabriel. Lenny? I want you to check and restock every cache of weapons we have here. Artemus, get Huck and Tom, and round up the kids. I want everyone where we can see them. No one wanders off or gets lost. Bruce? Call me later. Clara? Jack? Thank you for your time, but we're done here. Tony, find your Mate. Teach him everything. I mean it. Do it fast. Giles, get back to your database and see who we have in the Garden District. Someone knows what's going down, and I want that information. McGee? Can you get into the systems at the Ronald Reagan? I want pictures of that airport. Footage. Anything you can get me from Rochefort's attack."

"What about Speed?" Tony asked.

"Blade's on it," Nick replied, as the sound of a second bike tearing down the front drive in pursuit of their wayward Clan Advisor, confirmed his assertion.

"If Horatio Caine worked with Megan Donner, then he obviously knew about her husband's death. Which, by the way, she was right. He got pulled over a balcony rail by a boy he was trying to stop from committing suicide. I'd call that a pathetic and pointless way to die." Giles was nothing if not blunt.

"Is there a point in there?" Artemus chided gently.

"Well, I was wondering just what else this Horatio Caine might know. Have we even background checked this man?"

Giles was very lucky that Speed had gone, or there would have been two piles of dust in the room for Thomas to clean up.

And everyone there present, knew it too.

Besides Giles, of course.

"What do you assume Indiana Jones does for this Clan," Warrick muttered, "when he's not digging up large swathes of dead people in Central America?"

"Horatio and Jethro have been fully checked and found above reproach," Nick said quietly but firmly, keeping his outrage at bay.

Barely.

"I don't have that information archived," Giles retorted.

"You don't need it," his Clan Leader snapped, not seeing anyone obeying his orders yet.

"You background checked my Mate??" Tony screeched, his voice rising at least an octave. "Are you serious!? Are you seriously fucking serious with this!!!"

Nick was absolutely, 1000% done with the possessive whiny crap from his kid. "Look at my face, Elena."

"Yes, sir!" Tony replied instinctively, swallowing down the sense of powerlessness that was steadily creeping over him.

"Are we good here?"

"Yes, sir!" he replied. "Absolutely, sir!"

"Then why are you all still standing around? Get to work!" Nick's bellowing was reminiscent of the days when his brother had been running the Manor during the American Civil War.

Everyone moved.

Literally.

And everything seemed to happen all at once.

Horatio had been with Eric, heading over to the lab with Calleigh and Abby, when an explosion of violent anger from his Mate, had him faltering in mid-stride.

"H?" Eric had been contemplating going back to his room that he might change his shirt for one more professional, and put his boots on before getting stuck into a practical work enviroment.

Calleigh and her new friend - who actually scared him a little bit - were racing on ahead, eager to see what had become of the various tests and database searches left running the night before.

And he was okay with that.

He just had the sneaking suspicion that something wasn't right somewhere. And when Horatio reacted strangely for no clearly apparent reason, he found it hard to settle into any prospect of working, no matter how much he really enjoyed the science.

"I'm okay…" the redhead replied, rubbing his chest, sensing an anxiety level from his Mate that was somewhere off the charts. "Speed is…" He wasn't exactly sure what the correct word was to describe that much rage.

"Being Speed?" Eric ventured with a smile.

"Yeah," H chuckled in return. "That's totally it."

He felt a little helpless, having neither the authority nor the experience to intervene in Sylum Clan and its workings. And while he understood there was very much a need for meetings and discussions to try and determine exactly what was going on, and who could be attempting to harm them, he was far too much a man of action to be left out of matters for very long, especially where his Mate was concerned. Though he had no idea how he could help exactly, he still had connections and friends, and considerable influence in places even Speed didn't know about fully.

Calleigh and Abby vanished into what was a most impressive looking building, waving at Tom and Huck who lurked near the door.

"Wanna go check on him?" Eric suggested. "Just make sure he's not getting into trouble?"

"That would be a first."

"I hear ya!"

The gleeful sounds of children laughing and playing, were a welcome, if all too brief distraction.

They had passed the stables on the way out, before the pathway swept them right a little, and down into a natural depression in the local geography, but it had pleased to see beaming smiles on the faces of both Alexx and her husband, who were at least starting to seem more relaxed than they had on the flight in.

Even Suzie was laughing, surrounded by dogs, getting her hands licked. And Yelina had begun striking up a connection with Catherine Willows, the two moms chatting in a way that suggested they probably had more in common than they knew.

Gil Grissom had also nodded at them politely.

Horatio recognized him, having attended a couple of seminars that the Entomologist had conducted on forensic assessment of the evidentiary timeline, calculated from the growth cycle of insect life that could generally be found at many crime scenes. Though they had been fascinating, he found the very earnest and thorough Doctor Grissom, to be more than a touch stiff and rather distant with his peers, many of whom had joked that he was really much nicer to his bugs than his colleagues.

"How many people are here?" Eric asked. "The Vegas guys? Abby said she was with a team from D.C. This is bigger than we think, huh?"

"I think the whole Vampire thing is bigger than we think," Horatio replied. "We're barely scratching the surface right now." And as the two of them headed back up toward the house again, he found his thoughts drifting to strangely darker places. "The potential threat in all this, might not be a purely Vampire issue."

The solid reverberation of an altogether highly recognizable motorbike, accompanied by a streak of bright yellow flying out of the garage over on the right hand side of the brick path they were following, had both men running for the house.

Despite the orchard obscuring their visibility of the main road at the end, they knew Speed's preferred method of travel when they heard, and saw it.

"How many bikes does that boy have?" Horatio asked.

"And are they all identical?" Eric snorted.

They spotted Grissom in amongst the fruit trees, having seemingly gotten bored with the considerable variety of equine species that so huge a stable block clearly held.

He waved, but was distracted by a second bike that tore through his hoped for peace and quiet, shredding it entirely. And he stalked away with a sour glare on his face.

Horatio recognized the shape of a huge, black Harley Davison, ridden by someone he believed to be Blade, and felt a surge of relief at knowing someone had at least forethought enough to go after his wayward Mate.

Cook, having been a fixture at Sylum Manor by then for the better part of 30 years, was not in the least bit bothered by the two men dashing into her kitchen through the open laundry room door, heading straight out the opposite side of her domain without so much as a word of apology, and bolting for the reception area. She had, after all, been witness to far worse things than that, though hearing the Master of the House bawl orders like a man facing down his mortal enemy at close quarters, was rather disconcerting.

The first thing that happened, as everyone filed from the Security Room and came around the foot of the Grand Stairs intent on their assigned tasks, was the issuance of a loud acclamation from Riddick.

Part shock.

Part fear.

Part feral growl.

No one quite knew what to do as he made a sudden and violent lunge toward the tall, olive-skinned, dark-haired young man who came toward them all from the kitchen with a redhead, who in turn thought only to defend his friend and colleague from what appeared to be imminent harm.

For it hardly took Horatio more than a blink to see that the stocky, muscular, shaven headed individual in the denim jacket, distressed jeans and biker boots, was a dangerous threat to anyone. Unfortunately, he had left his gun in the safe upstairs, though he found himself reaching for it instinctively, only to have Eric, wide-eyed and frozen solid, when to all intents he really ought to have been running out of harm's way in fear of his life.

"Santa Maria Madre, de Dios! Bryon!!"

As though it wasn't bad enough that the normally very polite and exceptionally well-mannered Don Diego should utter such a thing, loudly and with unmistakable vehemence, he actually leapt somehow in front of Riddick to try and deter him from what he knew would be coming if there was no way to control the unpredictable Hunter he had befriended more than a century ago.

"Does this 'dumber than mud street rat' routine of yours actually work on people?" Bryon Hanson had a strong grip for a slimly built man.

And there was nothing Riddick could do about it without risking his neck. Making a fuss would bring the cops. There would be yelling and screaming. And he'd spend the night in a cell, trying to fend off local gang thugs who'd likely get a nice reward for making him dead.

It was New York City, 1856.

No one would care to investigate that hard if he was murdered.

And he knew it.

"Mostly," he said at last, smirking.

"Then you're either a very bad thief, or a very bad actor."

He'd had his eye, for some time, on the four men who disembarked from a fancy carriage in front of the Regency Hotel.

The one in charge of the group, had vanished inside to the lobby, sweeping past the uniformed Doorman like he was utterly sick of his traveling companions and couldn't wait for some privacy. He also had the kind of air about him, that suggested it would be life threateningly unwise to piss him off.

Of the other three, two were dark of hair and speaking in Spanish. Although it was the more elegantly dressed one who actually looked like he was a native of Spain, while the other was paler and a great deal more unkempt.

The last man was a touch taller than them, and definitely far more naïve just from the way he kept gazing around at the big city like a total country bumpkin.

That all of them had money, went without saying.

That they could do with losing a few bucks, was only a matter of time.

Riddick watched them from a convenient doorway across the street, as they dealt with the luggage.

They were tired, and had certainly come a very long way, for when the bumpkin addressed the porters, his accent offered a twang of the Deep South.

Probably Louisiana, judging by that slight French thing.

Rich plantation boys - or so he mused.

Easy to Pick.

The bumpkin had a head of hair the color of yesterday's stable bedding, and it fell across his forehead in a manner that women were meant to find most charming.

Or so he'd been told.

The bright blue eyes were seemingly naive enough.

And that smile was pretty genuine.

It would be easy.

The kids he took care of so they wouldn't be forced into hooking, or other unsavory crimes, could thank the good folks of Louisiana once their bellies were full.

Dipping the bumpkin's coat pocket would take less than a blink.

It wasn't like it was his first time…

The two other men weren't even looking as he crossed the road, tugging his cap down over his ears, making himself into 'average joe nobody'.

But somehow it all went swiftly to shit.

"I felt you," Eric said quietly. "When you lifted my wallet. I felt you there."

Horatio was flabbergasted. "You know this man?" he asked, but Delko really wasn't listening to him.

"A polite pickpocket, at least," he drawled, having snatched at the man's arm to hold him fast. "But a clumsy one." He sniffed at the would-be robber. "You neither look nor smell like you need my money. So were you on a dare when you Dipped me? And don't say you're drunk."

He smiled at the astonishment his comment produced, finding the thief to have a most expressive pair of silvery grey eyes.

"Lord above, sir! It was just a mistake is all," he whined, and visibly flinched as his right wrist got squeezed a little tighter.

"I would say," Bryon laughed, finding it greatly to the man's credit that despite having his bones ground together quite fiercely, he neither cried out in pain, nor begged for forgiveness, nor dropped his prize.

"You don't need the money either. The kids around here do."

"What?"

"You're in the big city now, boy. This ain't no genteel Southern Manor where the blacks get to do all the sweatin'. There's nippers with no home need food. So either call the law and have them haul me outta here, or let me go so they won't starve tonight, eh?"

"You are a guardian then?"

"I would've told you everything," Riddick answered. "Right there."

Diego pushed at his chest as he stepped closer, but he never even felt it.

"Did you know me then?" Richard asked, a little light-headed at what was happening.

And Eric nodded. "As I know you now."

From that, Horatio managed to figure out just what he was witnessing, but he needed some context to better understand the things he was hearing, as Eric and the newcomer had a conversation together of which he was mostly unaware.

The Spaniard introduced himself as Don Diego León Montoya Sánchez, and told Bryon to let the wallet go.

"Our Lord says we should suffer the little ones," he said sternly, and that was that.

Riddick had grinned, nodded, and run for his life the moment his wrist was his own again, pretty sure the scruffy guy who'd been frowning at him nastily, would much rather have seen him dragged off to jail.

The money had indeed gone far that day, completely paying off the debts owed at two different houses, and feeding the kids he had taken in, sufficient for two weeks provisions. He'd also gotten shoes for his friend Lorelei's two girls, and enough wood to refit her old and drafty front door, seeing how her drunken bum of a landlord who was meant to have done it months back, never quite managed to remember.

All in all, it had been a good few days, surprisingly worth the aggravation of meeting Bryon and his companions.

Though he had to wonder who exactly named their kid 'Bryon' to start with.

He'd been finishing up with that damn door, and fending off Lorelei's attempts at paying him in kind for his services, when he was jumped.

He hadn't even seen it coming.

He'd been too busy trying not think about Bryon's eyes…

Lorei had screamed and hidden inside her tiny apartment with her kids.

Not that he could blame her.

No one was stupid enough to get in the way of a gang on a beat down.

Well, not on purpose anyway.

He fell face first onto the dusty stoop, with the rough shove that hit him between the shoulders, swiftly scooping up a fistful of sawdust and chucking it at the first of his attackers as he leapt up again. It won him a very satisfying yell of surprise, and a lot of coughing, which left the guy open for being swiftly kicked in the balls.

It dropped him like a sack of coal.

A second thug took him by the shirt, spinning him around and landing a hefty blow to his chest that was all too quickly followed by a thump to the face that caught his right eye, and made his vision blur.

Lashing out, he head butted the sorry bastard, sending him backward into the trash on the other side of the dingy ally.

Just as he realized there was a third man stood watching the proceedings, Riddick was felled by a blow to the back that came from a heavy, unseen walking stick, and broke at least two of his ribs.

"You infringed on the rules again, Richie!"

The watcher's name was Paul Messer.

And he was the worst piece of shit Richard Riddick had ever had the misfortune of stepping on.

Had he breath, he would've told his tormentor to go fuck his mother.

As it was, he barely managed to struggled up onto his elbows, at least.

"The Regency is ours now. Come near it again, Dick, and those boys you're so fond of will wind up working for me when you finally force me to put you in the ground."

"HEY!!"

It sounded like a cop's authoritative shout, and at the far end of the alley there indeed stood an imposing silhouette, hands on hips, face hidden in the shadows as the sun lit him from the rear.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?" The newcomer marched briskly and purposefully toward them.

And the gang scattered, taking their groans of pain and their bruised bodies in hand enough to hobble away.

Riddick actually enjoyed watching Messer run like a scared little rabbit, but laughing was too much of an agony.

Finding himself unexpectedly held in a pair of caring, and yet altogether way too familiar hands, came as something of a shock. As did looking up and blinking into the same beautiful blue eyes he had been daydreaming about over the last week or so.

"We meet again…" Bryon's voice was smooth and softly lilting.

"What are you doing here?" Riddick gasped at the effort it took to speak.

"Saving your sorry hide, I'd say. Come on." He hauled his rediscovered thief carefully off the ground.

"Why should you help me?"

"Because I can, Richard."

"How d'you know my name?" Riddick glared at him, wanting to pull away yet increasingly reluctant to do so.

"I thought I should find you again. And you are rather infamous in these parts."

When Bryon chuckled just very lightly, it did things to Riddick's battered chest that made his heart feel like it would explode.

"You are the strangest man I've ever met," he groaned, trying to focus through the lust that Bryon's illuminating smile suddenly stirred in his loins.

"Haha! Then I shall take that as a compliment, else I might be obliged to knock you back on your ass, and I should really hate to increase the tally of your bruises today."

"D'you always talk like a pompous dick?"

"Do you always lose when you fight?"

Riddick growled, but it had no real power in it. "Only when I'm looking to be rescued."

"We had two weeks," Eric whispered sadly.

"I know." Riddick wanted what was his, and the urge to claim it made for an excruciating tension that built relentlessly through his every fiber.

Diego pushed him back again. "Control yourself old friend. This boy has not been Turned."

Everyone stared at what was happening. They knew the story - or most of it - behind Riddick's insanity. But they likely never imagined being present when Bryon Hanson returned to Sylum Manor.

Nick's eyes narrowed, seeing absolutely no way in hell that Speed could have failed to recognize so well remembered a Soul, in one of the very men he worked with every damn day.

Tony, having experienced first hand exactly what could happen when a Vampire who had long ago been driven to madness at the loss of his Mate before their Bond could be sealed, dipped into the nearest weapons cache hidden behind a panel by the Security Room door, and promptly retrieved at Glock 22, even as Warrick moved for the sword that Speed had left on the floor.

Richard sat up and turned to admire the sleeping form beside him.

Bryon had swept him up, amazed him, seduced him and shown him a life he knew he wanted, but feared he could never really have.

Not while there was so much injustice in the world.

He laid a hand over his lover's chest, still stunned by the lack of heartbeat and the presence of such little breath that he had to keep reminding himself it was alright.

He never knew such beautiful creatures could exist, yet there he lay.

A Vampire.

So too his three companions, come indeed from Louisiana on business.

They had welcomed him, answering all his questions.

Allaying his fears.

Treating him well.

Giving him hope.

He wasn't entirely sure that hope was what he needed though.

And yet, his body ached in new and delicious places a though to remind him of the way Bryon made him whole.

No stranger to how men fucked men, he had in the past, always done whatever it took to get such moments over with, that he might earn his money and leave as fast as possible before more was required than just his mouth.

He had never surrendered himself.

Never given himself.

Until Bryon.

Until that kiss.

Until those hands undressed him.

Until their bodies touched.

Until he willingly spread his thighs.

Until that hot, thick cock pushed inside him.

And filled a void in his Soul that he'd never known was there until that moment.

Bryon made him feel alive in ways he thought no one could ever know.

In more ways than he doubted anyone ever really should know.

And then…

And then those fangs had pierced his neck barely an hour ago, in the heat of a sweat soaked sexual frenzy, and he had screamed on a wave of pleasure so intense he passed out.

"You think too much." Bryan's sleepy voice was gentle and reassuring.

"I know." Riddick leaned down and kissed him deeply, sensing already what had begun between them.

The Bond.

"Don't be afraid," Bryon murmured against his lips. "I sense the tension in you."

"I want you."

"I know."

"But I should check on my kids," he said quietly. "I've left them alone for too long."

"Two days?"

"They're feisty."

"And probably hungry."

"Yeah. Stay in bed. I won't be gone long."

Bryon sighed and struggled to sit up, flicking his hair out of his eyes. "I'll come with you."

"It's a dangerous area. I don't want to see you get in trouble." Riddick hopped from between the sheets, snatching up his clothes.

"Are you forgetting who saved your incredibly well rounded ass from a gang of villains the last time I was there with you?" Bryon both looked and sounded smug, as he watched that same ass move about the room.

The very last thing Riddick wanted just then, was to even contemplate the name of Messer. It made his still aching ribs ache a whole lot more.

"The boys need me."

"I need you too." Bryon knew he was adorable when he whined pathetically.

Riddick sighed. "I would never forgive myself if something happened to you."

"I'm not some pathetic weakling who needs swaddling like an infant!" Bryon leapt out of bed, reaching for his pants.

"You are my Mate!" Riddick's growl was low and soft.

Bryon blinked at him. "Richard…" It made his cheeks flush to hear it said. "…you know?"

"Now that is really rather odd," Timothy snorted, appearing in the bedroom doorway unannounced.

"What?" Bryon demanded, tugging his pants up and blushing furiously.

Riddick growled again, finding the Irishman a highly disconcerting individual.

"I heard the screaming earlier, and thought you would be asleep by now."

The blush on Bryon's features grew more intense. "And that's odd?"

"What's odd is that you both bicker and fuck like Mates. Yet here you are, not Mated." Timothy was startling in his honesty.

"The Bonding has begun," Riddick assured him, before he had to listen to another explanation of how it all worked.

Bryon looked startled.

"I figured so," Timothy replied, staring at him, taking in his appearance as though wanting to recall every little detail. "If you ever do anything to hurt my Childe over there, who's standing with his mouth open like he's catching flies, be assured, Richard Riddick, you will answer for it."

"I don't doubt that for a second."

"Then you should be just fine." Tim turned to Bryon. "Finish it. Soon. You know its dangerous not to."

Riddick frowned at him, crouching to tie his boots. "What? Why? What did you fail to tell me? Did I miss something?"

"Losing a Mate before the Bond is completed, can drive the survivor insane."

Bryon watched as his Mate absorbed that highly sobering information. He'd been wanting to say it but had no idea how, and the desire to smack his tactless Irish Sire for telling Riddick that in so blunt a fashion, was just too much.

"Richard…" he began at last, so hoping to sweeten the moment. "Richard, you won't lose me! I shall be extremely careful. And you must be too. Promise me!"

"As though you driving me insane with desire already, wasn't bad enough?"

Even the generally sarcastic Timothy Quinn, who seemed never to crack much of a smile, rather smirked at Riddick's comment. "Yeah, I'm leaving now," he snickered, throwing his hands up. "Feel free to keep arguing."

Bryon growled. "I can perfectly well, take perfectly good care of myself, Mister 'Let Me Save All You Poor Downtrodden Children'."

"What?!"

"Its one of the most adorable things about you. Right up there with your ass and your smile, but…"

"Wait!" Riddick stalked toward him.

"'bye!"

The two of them never so much as blinked in Timothy's direction when he left.

"I meant that as a compliment!" Bryon went for the doe-eyed innocent look by way of placating the very obvious anger that was heading his way. "But unless the street gangs you live with around here are all carrying swords to behead me with, I'll be fine. I have you to protect me. Right?"

Riddick gazed long and hard into his lover's brilliantly flashing eyes, before reaching forward and kissing him soundly.

His.

This man before him.

Now.

So close.

So close he could touch.

The need was so intense, it physically pained him to just stand there.

Eric's heartbeat drummed with an incessant urging.

His.

His.

His.

His.

Riddick growled.

Before he knew what hit him, he found himself face first in the dust, ears ringing, neck stinging.

Blood trickled onto his collar from a cut behind his left ear.

He hadn't been paying attention.

And he knew it too.

Blinking away the suddenly horrible pain, even as his ribs protested the violence done to them again, he glanced up to see Bryon with a sword to Paul Messer's throat.

Apparently the sneaky little Southern Boy had a blade in his cane.

"Richie!" Paul sneered, not in the last bit bothered by the prospect of being speared through his Adam's Apple. "Wanna tell your pimp here to back off?"

There were at least six thugs around the entrance to the block Riddick lived in.

Big men.

All brawn.

No brains.

He peered at the shuttered window on the second floor that was the main room where his boys would be sleeping.

There were no lights flickering.

Which worried him.

There were always lamps lit.

The tiniest ones couldn't sleep in the dark.

"If you touch those kids…" he began, struggling to his feet.

Paul snorted in contempt. "What can I say? Papa told me to deal with your little wannabe gang here, so I did. And you're gonna join 'em next."

A fury so intense, it burned through Richard Riddick's being in an instant, had him launching himself at Paul, and to hell with the sword in Bryon's hand.

But he was held fast.

By someone unseen.

Stronger than anyone had a right to be.

He snarled.

His coat was torn, the seams giving way against those fingers that bit deeply into his flesh.

An Irish Brogue bid him be still.

He knew then who held him.

"Vallon!" he growled. "You runnin' with the Messers now? Killing little boys for kicks?"

Bryon never took his eyes off Paul Messer, but his senses were sharp enough to know that who ever Vallon was, and whatever he wanted, he was a dangerous Vampire.

"Killin' fools who don't know no better," Vallon hissed grimly, and Riddick could barely believe it, as he was shaken around like a rabbit in a dog's mouth.

"Papa found new friends," Paul explained quite calmly. "We give them all the necks they wanna suck on, they give us Five Points, and everything else we want in Manhattan."

Bryon paled.

Vallon laughed. "Everybody wins."

But there were 7 dead boys whose faces passed before Riddick's eyes and refused to go away, screaming for him to help them. "You got into bed with Vampires?" he yelled, loud enough to startle Messer into finally taking a step back.

And all the other thugs took a step forward.

"Now that's rich, ain't it? Seein' how you reek of this one over here," Vallon chuckled, right in his ear. "Guess he's a good fuck, huh? An' pretty too. Nice 'n' tight."

That was when Bryon's eyes flashed fully with the Vampire in his Soul, and he glared at Vallon for the first time, his jaw falling open at the similarity to an old and trusted Clansmen he knew.

Vallon's laugh was dry and knowing. "Mates? Well, now! That makes it more excitin', eh? Mharú dó!"

When it happened, it was terrifyingly fast.

Indiana Jones and Lara Croft quite literally walked into the situation, bags in hand, instincts screaming that something bad was going down.

Finding Riddick's classic black '66 Mustang parked right outside with the trunk open, was indication enough of trouble. He had a habit of ferrying wanted felons and other assorted lowlifes that way, in the spacious accommodations his car's rear could afford.

They had no idea who the man with the bow legs was, but he came into the Manor close behind them, a most curious expression on his face. And he was in turn quickly followed by a pair of joggers whom they had seen come around from the library end of the building just as their cab was pulling up the drive.

Kate had risen early, dressed for exercise, gotten advice from Cook on the best running course to take for a newcomer to the Plantation and its grounds, and promptly found Gerald had the same idea. Though he'd chatted away to her most excitedly at least half the time, about having been distracted by a vast and shiny array of cars parked in the garage below Ducky's apartment, she had been glad of the company, and really quite pleased to discover she was also not alone in freaking out over the enormity of their surroundings, and all the unknowns they had been thrown into.

They had seen the helicopter they'd arrived in the night before, take off early too, its slightly ditzy pilot apparently eager to get his bird back to base. He'd even waved at them from the cockpit when he saw them head out and down the drive. And Kate wondered if they'd have to leave Sylum the way they came, and whether she could take a nice safe car ride with Gibbs instead

Neither she nor Gerald could justly ignore the activity that seemed to be taking place in the very front of the house when they came around the far wing with its broad, round tower, and so they wound up panting and sweating, stood inside the main doorway with an officious looking, slightly silver haired, stocky man who totally ignore them.

Gil Grissom only had eyes for Nick.

And what he saw went a very long way toward helping solidify the idea that his young Texan CSI was so much more than being either young, or Texan.

Or even his.



When the yelling from the bedroom finally stopped, there was a clatter of heavy boots, followed by the slamming of doors.

Then silence.

Nick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

He knew better than most others of his kind, how very fragile the urge to Bond could truly be, and was about ready to have Lenny Briscoe and some of his Chosen Ones in the New York City Police Department, organize a total shut down of the hotel for safety's sake, just so Bryon would have nothing to fear after finding his Mate in what constituted one of the worst parts of the city.

Lenny had been telling him just the day before, about the gangs and their particularly nasty brand of domestic warfare.

Somehow it seemed so very typical that one of his party had to go and get themselves involved with the most violent of said gangs, by trying to save a well known and oddly reputed local nobody who was bound and determined to get himself in trouble at every available turn, whilst valiantly attempting to do the right thing.

That he should prove to be Bryon's Mate only served to make matters worse and encourage the building anxiety he was sensing.

Their time in New York had been necessary for several reasons, the biggest of which was in finalizing arrangements with Benton - Tallikut's Clan Leader - for an Underground Railroad that would funnel blacks north, and either get them safely out of the country, or provide them with papers. But he had also had meetings with his own Clan's War Counsel, knowing Leonard would have to be fully aware of the scheme and how it might proceed.

It had proven to be a stressful few days that led to an increasingly stressful few weeks.

And it promised more to come.

He sighed.

The city wore him out.

He had never really liked New York. It felt too overpowering, too crowded, too much.

As though the entire world wanted to cram itself into the tiniest space possible, and do it with neither grandeur nor grace.

On top of which, he had been sensing Timothy's increasing anxieties over Bryon.

Which no amount of common sense could seemingly ease.

It made him irritable.

And grumpy.

As did missing Warrick.

It had been considered prudent for his Mate to stay at the Manor rather than risk traveling with him, and there had been some vehement words spoken that he seriously regretted. Though having his Mate throw him face down over the foot of their bed and proceed to show him just what a fine black man was actually capable of, made for a lasting memory that would…

"I should get you a cat bell around your neck," he said flatly, turning to the closet that he might pull his boots and his defensive gear on, and then go after his wayward family, only to spy an altogether disturbing visage in the mirror over his left shoulder.

"And a fine good evening t'you too, Nico!"

Pearly Soames was a shaven headed, charmingly spoken, elegantly attired, filthy tempered Irishman with a disfiguring scar on his left cheek that ran from his temple to the corner of his mouth, and turned back on itself to follow the length of his jawline all the way to his left ear.

It was horrifying.

Mostly to those who didn't know him.

But it served as a reminder to those who did, that sometimes even love can exact too high a price.

He held himself stiffly, like his back always troubled him, but the broadness of his shoulders, and the fierce manner of his ways, was something of a distinguishing family trait.

He was in equal parts both vicious and passionate, which also distinguished the best and worst of his bloodline.

And he answered to absolutely no one.

At least no one whom Nicolaus had ever encountered.

"I was expecting you sooner."

"Ah, well y'see certain moments have to be what they are, and play out as they should." Pearly offered him a smile, and looked about as apologetic as a man of his remarkable nature ever could.

"This is about Vallon?"

"Ay!"

"You brought The Short Tails?" Nick asked, hoping Pearly's perpetually uncouth mob of assorted lowlifes and irritatingly pompous thuggery weren't loafing around in the street outside, making decent folks nervous.

"You bring that snooty arsed English butler of your'n?"

There had been some animosity for a while there.

Nick fought with himself not to chuckle, and simply settled for a slightly amused snort as he strapped on his weapon of choice, and covered it with the heavy cuff of his overcoat.

Clutching his hat and gloves in both hands most politely, Soames watched the whole moment with badly feigned patience. "Are y'done yet with the primpin'? Only there's stuff goin' down that be requirin' some haste."

Nick backed away, heading for the door to his suite. "Tell me where. Don't you go tossing me through the damn ether again like I'm no more than a hay bale, or I'll be vomiting on those nice expensive shoes of yours."

Pearly chortled and shrugged. "Now there's no need for ingratitude, Nicolaus. I don't go doing this for every Tom, Dick and Paddy I happen to take a shine to."

"Oh…! God!" Sylum's Clan Leader closed his eyes and braced himself. "Really?"

"Ay! Y'touched the Apple there back along. That makes y'a rare one."

Nick moved the very moment Riddick raised his fist to attack Diego.

There was only so long, that a desperate and crazed Vampire could be expected to restrain himself from taking back what had been stripped from him so cruelly.

There was, and still is, nothing even remotely comparable to opening your eyes and finding you've gone from the comfortable warm security of a very nice, very expensive hotel room, to the freezing edge of an unstable rooftop in Manhattan, faster than the time required to take a breath.

Not that breathing was an essential part of the process, but as promised, I did promptly heave up my guts, cussing Soames for the fucking asshole he has always been, and ever will be. Still, he was in a relatively fair mood, which meant his Mate had to have been walking the Earth somewhere as yet undiscovered, and I couldn't fault him for being optimistic.

There was always hope.

Even for him.

Things just had a way of getting really bad whenever he lost sight of that fact.

It took me a moment too long, to figure out what was happening and get my bearings. Apparently Pearly thought it somehow appropriate to dump me on a perch overlooking the street, while he strode masterfully into the fray that was unfolding below me, tipping his hat in my direction like everything was just business as normal.

Diego and Timothy were too late. Not by much, but just enough to make all the difference for Riddick, who even as I struggled to orient myself in the first shock of landing on that hellish roof, screamed loud enough for his anguish to reverberate off the walls.

Bryon was gone, his ashes falling like snow on the sidewalk, his sword clattering into the gutter as it fell.

Timothy screamed too, in outrage and anger, racing fast into the fight, beheading Bryon's killer without pause.

There were men appearing from everywhere, emerging from the shadows like ghosts from the grave.

Bryon had simply been overwhelmed, even as Riddick was pinned to the ground by Vallon.

Diego swept through Rogue after Rogue.

But not all those present that night, were Vampires.

There were heartbeats besides that of Richard Riddick, and I honed in on them easily enough, watching them take instruction from a man backed up against a wall.

Paul Messer.

Had to be.

Lenny had given me a general description on some of the better known gang leaders, just in case we should run into anyone who might otherwise come back later with a grudge.

So much for hindsight, hmmm?

It's foresight that usually bites me on the ass.

Pearly's appearance got Messer's boys running like rodents, scattering for their lives, probably terrified The Short Tails were about to get in on the act.

Vallon was still crouched over Riddick.

Timothy made a move in his enemy's direction, but Soames waved him off, stopping him in mid-stride.

The two Irishmen stared hard at each other but then, they'd always had a rather unhealthy respect for their mutual past, and knew better than to waste time fighting pointless battles between themselves.

Diego dragged my boy away, and they took off after the remainder of Vallon's men, leaving the humans for whatever fate might befall them at the hands of Paul Messer's father.

One heartbeat remained then.

But Riddick's was gone.

Pearly took Vallon's head in both hands having him up like he weighed no more than a feather.

The Rogue thrashed and squirmed in panic, trying to find a way free, having failed so utterly in seeing the danger that came upon him, it was really quite a beautiful thing to behold as he realized he was done for.

With a violent twist, Pearly broke his prey's neck, then calmly tore his head clean off.

Paul Messer wet his pants.

I could smell it.

Whimpering in fear, not knowing which way to go, or what to do to be safe, his plans - and those of his father - were in ruins. But at least Vallon was gone, and Bruce Wayne was free of the bastard who bore almost a mirror's image of his face.

When Messer finally ran, I made my move.

Pearly, in what he later described as 'an unexpected moment of charity', dealt with Richard Riddick, for whom the Turning had yet to be properly finished. Though I do confess, given the circumstances of his becoming a Vampire, and everything that has affected him since then, that there have been a fair few occasions when I've had to wonder whether letting him die there that night, might have been the more charitable act.

Messer, on the other hand, was not about to receive charity.

Of any kind.

Sweeping down off the roof was easy enough done, even in an overcoat not specifically cut for that purpose.

Riddick told me once, in a frank exchange of old memories, that he thought me to be some kind of giant black bat, come hurtling to earth for his Soul. And given that he was himself hovering in that last shallow breath between this life and the next when he saw me, I can understand how he believed as he did.

He also firmly accepts that his Turning was at the whim of Vallon alone, and I have never told him the full truth of it, purely for the sake of his occasionally fragile sanity, rather than any particular desire to keep Soames from admitting his responsibility.

Few enough Souls know who Pearly is.

And the world as a whole, is better off that way.

My focus however, was entirely on Messer, and landing lightly on the road, right before him, stopped him dead in his tracks.

He shrieked.

Naturally.

"You killed a very good friend of mine," I said quietly, wondering how I might tell Bryon's family about his death.

In what miserable light there was on that dark and stinking street, Messer could certainly have seen very little of my face. Not with my collar turned up and my temper kept in check so my eyes would not betray my deeper nature. "Tell your father, his time here is done. He takes one from me, I take one from him."

With a flick of the wrist, I felt my blade snick into place from under my cuff.

It gave a solid assurance to my purpose.

It always had.

Messer flinched at the sound, for I admit it seemed unusually loud, yet he did not see the razor-edged weapon I slid swiftly up and under his ribs.

His face, already pale and pox marked by childhood illness, grew a sudden shade of deathly grey.

Blood poured from his chest and over my tightly clenched fist as the pressure of the blade upon my right arm, pushed at the long and sturdy leather bracer that held its mechanism, shoving it hard against my elbow.

He gasped, barely, his expression betraying shocked disbelief that manifest itself in a complete inability to even begin fighting against me.

His mouth fell open.

When I retracted the steel from his guts and pushed him backward, he staggered, the wet patter of his vital fluids spilling onto the cobbles, seeming enough to finally have him realize what had happened.

I'd left him alive just enough for him to run home and deliver the message.

How he died after that, was not my concern.

Riddick blinked.

Nick nodded.

Diego had not been anticipating the left hook to the jaw that knocked him against the wall, yet Sylum's Clan Leader moved to position himself between the Hunter and any other potential damage that might ensue.

"You want to hit something else? Hit me!" he growled, getting firmly in Riddick's face, pulling his shoulders back and squaring off with the man in a display of powerful authority that left absolutely no one confused about who was in charge, or why it should be so.

Riddick blinked again, not yet fully in control of his senses, his eyes flashing intermittently as he fought with his Soul for the Mate he had lost.

"This boy is human." Nick knew he had to keep reiterating the obvious, just to be sure it was understood. "I know how this feels." He planted himself solidly against Riddick's insistent forward steps, stopping him from moving another inch. "He doesn't belong to you yet."

Thomas, having been discreetly checking in on Master Jethro, had heard the arrival of Master Riddick and the subsequent yelling, after which he had been most pleasantly surprised by the notable voice of General Meridius, from whom he had not directly heard in some time. It was certainly well within his purview to intervene and ask precisely what was happening, yet there appeared to be a major crisis ready to explode, right in the front entrance, and he had visions of the Master of the House having to drop Riddick where he stood in order to prevent irreversible and cataclysmic violence.

However, it was the expression on Master Horatio's face that disturbed him far more, and realizing how all and sundry were entirely too distracted by the altogether obvious, he rushed down the stairs in order to be of some very timely assistance indeed.

Nick still refused to move, and he wondered if the young man with Bryon's Soul was in fact consciously aware of what was about to take place.

Riddick took a deep, shuddering breath, and finally let go the rigidity in his shoulders.

"I need…" he murmured, the words so thinly whispered, that only a fellow Vampire would ever have heard them.

Nick embraced his Hunter then, pulling him into a fierce hug.

"I need…" Once he said it, Riddick felt the truth of it hit his mind, clearing away the otherwise unrivaled terrors from what had gone before, and filling the space left behind with an altogether new fear, that he would lose his Mate yet again somehow. "I need…" he murmured, resting his head against his Clan Leader's neck. "Please?"

"I know," Nick reassured him. "I know. But not like this."

"I need…"

"I know. He will be safe here. He will be Turned. He knows you. Be at peace with that."

And there could truly be no doubting that he, and everyone else present, had just been witness to the instantaneous touching of two old Souls.

Warrick watched his Mate intently, his own past reasserting itself to clarify a moment he had long dwelt on, about the capacity for self-control that Nicolaus possessed.

Those around them seemed to utter a collective sigh of relief.

Eric simply remained rooted to the spot however, unable to keep his heart from slamming against his ribs, or his body from shaking as the Manor once more came into better focus around him, and he could remember where is was.

Kind of.

Words failed him.

Utterly.

Nick pulled back from his Hunter, holding him steady, solid hands on his shoulders. "I promise you, this will be made right. Do you believe me?"

Riddick nodded, looking him in the eyes. "Always."

"Then you have work to do."

"Yes, General."

Nick smiled briefly. "Get to it. Same goes for the rest of you! Indy? Lara? Take care of this." He gestured at Eric. "Make sure he know everything about Bryon. Everything. Do it fast. Do not let him out of your sight. Get him Turned. ASAP. Today."

He glanced at Tony and Warrick, grateful for their readiness to act but even more grateful that it had not been required.

Riddick took a last look at the man who would be his Mate, then gave Diego a lopsided smirk, which was all that would pass between them by way of apology.

Thomas sidestepped swiftly through the crowded lobby.

Horatio groaned softly, clutching his chest like he was fighting for breath.

Nick's stomach dropped into his boots.

Tony paled so fast that even Warrick reached out for him in anticipation of what he dreaded might come next, for the much older Vampires of the Clan had at various points in their experience, seen the terrible moment when a Mated friend was suddenly reduced to dust, leaving the remaining Soul in an agony of loss for an excruciating, gut clenching pause, before finally following their beloved into death.

Such was how Horatio appeared.

And such was usually the only warning fellow Vampires ever got, of impending devastation.

Thomas caught the redhead as he collapsed.

Everyone took a step backward, staring in horror. But given that Horatio was not yet dust, Nick rallied his own aching Soul one more time, finding a peculiar blankness where his Parent Bond with Timothy normally lay, and he realized that despite whatever else might be going on with Speed at that particular moment, his boy still lived.

"I gave you all orders!" he growled furiously, eyeing his people like they were stupid. "MOVE!!"

And they did.

Fast.

Thomas cradled Horatio in his lap, having sunk to the floor with his charge.

The man was out cold.

Indy and Lara quickly grabbed Eric, to whom they had not even been properly introduced yet, and hauled him to their rooms in the quiet Underground area of the Manor's rather unusual, yet spaciously appointed accommodations. He would be safe there, and they figured on at least being able to prepare him for Turning in a relatively stress free environment. That he was still dazed by so close an encounter with the life his Soul had once known in the past, was not surprising, but they knew it would make it easier for him to accept the truth, and they got him out of harm's way smoothly enough.

Ever the keen observer, Gil had been curious, not so much on the nature of the confrontation he'd witnessed, but more the nature of Nick's behavior in dealing with it - in particular, the very strange gesture he had made by flicking his right wrist with a subtle, yet distinctive flexing of the arm muscles when his hand was lowered. He had seen the same thing before, most recently in the heat of an entirely different argument that took place at the lab in Vegas.

Gil had wondered then what it meant, and recognizing it again left him puzzling over whether there was something Nick kept expecting to happen as a result of it. A signal perhaps? One for his Clan members that negated use of words. Or did he simply have a nervous twitch? A 'tell' that only appeared when he was deeply enraged? Then there was the highly intriguing possibility that Nick had developed some kind of reflex action from the carrying of some habitually familiar object he was not recently to be found in possession of.

It was a tantalizing idea that he sadly had no chance to ask about, give the speed with which one situation piled itself unapologetically upon the next.

Nick's cell phone buzzed, and crouching down beside Horatio, he reached for it on his belt, answering the call without needing to see who was on the other end of the line.

"Blade, go," he said simply.

Tony stopped in mid-step, having raced only halfway up the stairs, and he glanced back over his shoulder, ears straining to hear both sides of the conversation.

"Found Speed's bike. It's dinged but doesn't look like he came off it at great velocity. No sign of him. Not a trace."


***


What the hell is this?

Yeah, let's go with the classics.

Where am I?

What's going on?

How did I get here?

What d'you want with me?

Wait.

Back that up.

I can't move.

At all.

Not the tiniest little bit.

Can't blink.

Can't swallow.

Can't breathe.

Not that breathing is my biggest concern right now.

But the non-blinking thing is gonna suck pretty fast.

Actually, I can't even move my eyes to look around.

Can't sniff the air either, or I'd be able to maybe get some kind of clue on where the fuck I am right now.

It's dark.

Okay, that's a start.

Don't panic.

It's all good.

What else can I see?

Jack shit.

That's what else.

Wait.

Hang on, there's a draft.

On my arms.

Okay, I can feel things.

There's a displacement of air.

Can I…?

No, I can't see where from.

Maybe behind me.

I'm upright.

On my feet.

Well, at least I'm not buried alive.

Hopefully.

I can feel my hands.

Just can't move them.

Over my head.

Up high.

Is that chain?

Around my wrists?

It's cold.

Metal.

Not smooth like a cuff.

My head is lying canted a bit on the crook of my left shoulder.

Awkward.

Weird.

Why can't I move?

Why can't I remember?

There's not much pain.

Just the normal aches that come from being strung up like a side of pork in a butcher's freezer.

Am I even cold?

Meh, not really.

I'm clothed.

I think.

I hope.

Yes I'm clothed.

My shirt is right there against my cheek.

I can feel my sleeves falling down my arms.

Hold it.

I was riding.

Yeah, I remember that now.

I was totally pissed.

More than pissed.

I was goddamn fucking livid!

Megan…

I swear right now, if whatever this is has anything to do with Stillson or Tavington, I'll kill either, or both, and go fuck the fucking consequences.

I hope I've got my pants on.

Though my ass would probably be alerting me by now if I didn't.

There's not much in life makes for greater vulnerability than having your ass stripped bare when you can't do anything to stop it.

Doesn't bode well.

Can I see dust in the air?

Fuck!

I wish I could blink.

It's quiet.

C'mon Tim, calm the hell down.

You've been in some bad crap before.

Remember the Tower of London?

Yeah, but at least I could move back then!

This is fucking insane!!

How the actual fuck is this possible?

Has to be a drug.

Or is it one of the Professor's 'special' students we don't ask about?

Not sure I've pissed any of them off badly enough to warrant this much of a nightmare.

Wait

Can I hear something?

It's very quiet.

Too quiet.

A scrape.

There doesn't seem to be any natural light.

A scrape.

For sure.

What was that?

Seems it's been a bit too long since I had to rely entirely on my other senses so much.

A stool.

No, a chair.

Legs.

Chair legs scraping on a floor.

Footsteps above me.

I'm in a cellar then.

Or a basement.

I was riding.

Now I'm here.

Just what the hell is…?

Feet.

Shadows.

A chair.

There's a chair now, in my line of sight.

Some ridiculously carved, elaborate thing that's about as out of place here as a needle in a condom factory.

Someone tell me this is a prank, so I can kill people now and get this done with?

Not that I'd be pleading or shit, even if I could actually speak.

Who the fuck would do this?

And…

Wait.

What?

A light.

A bulb clicked.

And buzzed.

Old bulb.

Bright light.

Makes my eyes water.

I'm expecting the Third Degree now, like some Cold War melodrama.

But, no.

"Hello, Timothy."

Please God, let me blink!

"It's so very charming to see you again."

I know that voice.

There's legs and feet.

Someone sitting down.

Expensive pants.

Nice shoes.

European design.

European accent.

"We need to have a little chat."

No.

Way.

There's just no…

No.

Fucking.

Way.

It's not…

It can't be!

He's dead!

As in not a bloody Vampire.

Dead.

As in dead.

In the ground.

Dead.

Long gone.

With a monument to prove it!

A casual chuckle.

Easy.

Relaxed.

In total control.

Really, this is funny?

"Well now…"

He steeples his hands, long fingers, tips together, arched upward at the ceiling I'm chained to.

"…isn't this pleasant."

See it from my angle, fucktard.

"Shall we get down to business?"

It's not him

It can't be him

Yeah, let's go with the other classics…

How is this possible?

Where have you been?

What do you want with me?

Oh, I am in so much shit right now.



To be continued …